


Over The Edge

by minnesotamemelord



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Canon Compliant, Don’t you fuckers dare spoil endgame in the comments or I will cut you, Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, Iron Man 3, Iron Man 3 Compliant, Iron Man 3 Spoilers, M/M, Not Iron Man 3 Compliant, Parent Tony Stark, Pepper Potts & Tony Stark Friendship, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Iron Man 3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, Well - Freeform, mostly - Freeform, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-09 14:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18640423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minnesotamemelord/pseuds/minnesotamemelord
Summary: It was late Christmas night and Tony realized- he had nowhere to go. The house in Malibu was at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, Stark Tower was under construction, and here Tony was, stranded in Los Angeles without a suit, a home, or a hope in the world. There was only one place left to go.





	Over The Edge

**Author's Note:**

> I’d appreciate any feedback you guys have!!

The Clean Slate Protocol had wiped the sky with streaks of orange and yellow, demolishing everything Tony had used to protect himself, literally and figuratively, in a single stroke. And it was worth it, he supposed, to keep his friends and himself sane. 

The cops had finally let him go, and Tony stood at the edge of the cliff that his house had used to balance on, staring down at the crashing gray waves. The salty ocean wind whipped his hair into a miniature tornado of black and silver. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering through his thin shirt. The only light came from the stars, impossibly visible in the flat black sky, and the reactor in his chest, projecting a dim blueish glow down into the abyss.

He briefly considered jumping. It wasn’t that he was depressed, although he probably was, and it wasn’t that he really wanted to die or thought the world would be better off without him, although it probably would. It was more that he wanted a sense of peace, even there amongst the crashing waves. But he wouldn’t do it, he knew. He hadn’t done it before, and he wouldn’t do it now.

Tony kicked a rock, sending it flying over the edge and watched it as it disappeared, out of sight before it hit the water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. It might have been a day, or a week, or maybe even a month. He wanted to sleep, more than anything else.

Sleep seemed too far off. Literally. His house was gone, Stark Tower was destroyed, and there was little else he could do. Maybe call Rhodey. Nah. Rhodey had to have had enough of him by now. Ordinarily he wouldn't have minded being a bother, but since he'd crash landed out of a wormhole in space, he felt a lot more bothered by... well, bothering people. And as far as he knew, there were only a few people that he bothered that might still let him in for the night. Several were entirely out of the question, old girlfriends and boyfriends he didn't want to deal with. That brought the number down to two. One of the two was a risk. A serious, serious risk. As in, could result in his imminent destruction by a radioactive green beast. That left only one, someone who kind of hated him but was also too polite to turn him away. It would be hard to get there, though. All the way across the country.

Luckily, the Clean Slate Protocol didn't include _everything._ Just the suits. Tony pulled his phone out of his pocket. The screen was half-shattered. He tapped away at it. Turning Jarvis into an app might have been his best idea ever. 

With the final push of a button, the circles of concrete that marked his driveway creaked and groaned as they retreated into the cliffside. Out of the black hole that seemed to go on forever rose a platform. On it was the only one of Tony’s inventions that hadn’t been demolished, a single pair of metal gloves. They were just prototypes, a part of what was supposed to be Mark 43, but hadn’t been finished before he’d activated Clean Slate. He strapped them on, the dirt and blood on his hands (metaphorical and physical) disappearing under the mottled silver gloves.

”This better work,” he muttered to himself as he heard the whine of electricity. “Come on, work.”

There was a low, metallic thunk, and the dim blue light that had begun to project from his palms faded. “Damn it.” He tapped his palm with the finger of his other hand, narrowly dodging as it sent a bolt of electric blue up at him, shaky and uneven at first, then strong and steady. He turned his hands toward the ground and began to rise, slowly but surely.

”Just a little more...” and that was it. He shot up into the air, spinning like a corkscrew. He whooped loudly as he went up and up and up, the lights and noise of the city fading into a blur. It was cold- freezing, really- through his shirt, but it was almost unnoticeable. Was this what it was like to fly? Really fly, without a suit or airplane to hold you up? 

It was a cloudless night, and Tony felt like if he just went a few feet up, he’d be able to touch the stars themselves. He was above the desert now, a swirl of sandy reds and browns. Tony poured on the gas, so to speak, propelling himself forward so that his teeth rattled in his cheeks and the countryside below him was impossible to see.

Warm desert nights gave way to the freezing Midwest. The earth below was beautiful but unforgiving, a perfect white landscape dotted with bare trees and the odd bunch of livestock. He was getting close, and thank god, because he could hardly feel his fingers even through the gloves, and he was pretty sure his goatee was frozen solid.

Once again, the countryside disappeared and was replaced with civilization, possibly Baltimore or Charlottesville. Flying without a plan was not an exact science. He veered south, scanning the landscape and beginning his descent. The city at last came into sight, marked by the huge white obelisk that pierced the sky in front of him. He swooped down, landing at a run in front of the monument, nearly tumbling into the reflecting pool. 

In Washington D.C., the sun was still out, although it was sinking fast, and it created a rainbow through the increasingly heavy drizzle. Tony turned and started to walk away from the monument, before something, well, monumental, slammed into him. He tumbled to the ground, sprawling on the damp concrete.

"Oh my god, I'm so- Stark?" Tony rolled onto his back, squinting up at the veritable giant towering over him. "What are you doing here?" Steve Rogers folded his arms over his broad chest.

"Looking for you, Capsicle."

"You found me. What do you want?"

"You gonna help me up first, or just leave me on the ground?" Steve obliged, holding out a hand, which Tony took, and yanked him to his feet.

"So?"

"You seen the news in the last 24 hours?"

"Oh," Steve said, remembering. "Sorry. About your house. And... everything else."

"It's fine. Stark Tower should be fixed soon, but, uh, until then..." Tony spread his hands apologetically.

"You need a place to stay?" Steve raised his eyebrows. "And I was the best choice? Two-point-five thousand miles across the country? The last time we hung out was when we ate shawarma together a year ago."

"Yeah, well, I don't have that many friends. Look, can I steal your couch for a night or not? I don't really want to fly all the way back to LA." Steve looked reluctant, but nodded.

"Fine. Come on." He looked down at Tony. "And we'd better go quick. You're soaked." Tony glanced down and noticed for the first time that his clothes were, indeed, soaked through. He pushed his sopping wet hair out of his face and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Let's get going," he said, not bothering to wait for Steve.

"You don't even know where you're going!" Steve called after him.

"Sure I do!"

 

He did, in fact, know exactly where Steve's apartment building was, which was as creepy as it was efficient. By the time they got there, both were positively drenched, and Steve's teeth were chattering.

"What were you even doing out there in the rain?" Tony asked as they entered the building, shaking droplets of water out of his hair.

"Running."

"You run in the rain?" Steve shrugged. "Why?"

"Nobody else does. Generally, there's nobody out there when it's like this, obviously excluding world-famous millionaires whose house was destroyed by terrorists."

"Obviously." Steve pressed the elevator button, a rickety old thing from the early forties. It reminded Tony of him, shiny and remodeled on the outside, but still old, holding on for dear life. They rode up in relative silence, which was only interrupted by the clunking of the elevator chains and the ding of the button as the doors opened.

”Couldn’t you have just gotten a hotel room?” Steve asked, pausing outside his door.

”I could have. But why would I do that when I could stay here for free?” Tony grinned, trying to mask his embarrassment. The thought of a hotel hadn’t even crossed his mind. In fact, Rhodey and Pepper and Banner had all crossed his mind after Steve.

Without another word, Steve opened the door with a gentle tug, tossing his keys on the kitchen counter.

”I’ll see if I can find you some dry clothes,” Steve called as he left the room, tugging his shirt over his head so that Tony caught just a glimpse of his back. He returned several minutes later with a stack of clothes, a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. “They’re probably too big, but...” Steve shrugged apologetically.

They were too big, of course, but not as big as Tony had expected. Or maybe he was bigger. If he just rolled up the cuffs of the jeans and the sleeves on the shirt a little bit, they could have been his own clothes. 

“How do I look?” He asked, with the same cocky but charming air he used on everyone.

”Good. You, uh- you look good.” Steve turned away, a slight blush creeping over his face. “Glad they fit.”

”Not too shabby. You got a laundry room?” Steve nodded.

“I can toss your stuff in later. You hungry?”

”Always.” Tony slid into one of the plastic stools in front of the counter.

”Well, fair warning, I’m probably not as good as any of your fancy chefs or whatever.”

”Lucky for you, I cook for myself.” Steve looked surprised. Again.

”You cook?”

”My mom taught me a little before she died. And I had a lot of nannies. They were all Italian.”

”I... wouldn’t have seen that coming. But since you can cook, and I am letting you sleep on my sofa-“

”I got it. Give me twenty minutes.” And he did, and Tony did what he could with whatever he found in Steve’s cabinets, piecing it together bit by bit, substituting here, omitting there, until at last, he was done.

”Bon appétit, Cap.” Tony pushed a plate across the counter.

”Spaghetti?”

”You got a problem with spaghetti?”

”No, I just expected snails or something.” Tony shrugged.

”You didn’t have snails. You had spaghetti. But it’s damn good spaghetti if I say so myself. And I do.” Steve twirled the pasta around his fork absentmindedly. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. "What?" Tony asked with his mouth full. Steve sighed.

"Why are you here, Stark? I mean, we're not friends. We don't 'hang out.' We get together when Fury needs us, do the mission, you make fun of me for a minute, then we go home to opposite ends of the country and don't see each other again until the whole thing starts over again. That's our dynamic. So why the hell did you show up in the middle of my jog?" Tony grinned, although it looked a little more like a grimace, and swallowed hard.

"I would have gone to Banner, but he's got so much of his own shit to deal with, and... you were the only other person I could think of that might get it." Tony's voice was sincere, more sincere than he'd been in years, without any trace of his usual charm or vague amusement.

"Get what, Stark?"

"These past few days, I've been having these moments where I just- I can't breathe, I can't move, I'm just totally frozen. And all I can think about is flying that nuke into the wormhole, and knowing that was the end. That I would never see anyone, any of my friends, ever again. And that I saved the world-"

"But you wouldn't be around to see it." Steve looked pensive. "I know the feeling."

"And it's like I can't be alone, but I can't be with other people either. Then it's over, and I'm fine, and I think it's just a one-time thing until it happens all over again."

"You're having anxiety attacks, Tony. I've seen it before with guys in the army. They came back, and it was like a piece of them was missing."

"Yeah, okay, so how do you deal with it? How do you fix... me?" Tony stood up suddenly and began pacing the room, running his hands through his windblown hair.

"There's no way to just fix it. You could see someone, but even that's going to take awhile. You're just going to have to learn to deal with it."

"Deal with it? That's your advice? Good lord, Steve, I know you're the big tough guy, but I-" Tony groaned. "I'm not! I'm not a soldier! Nobody ever taught me how to deal with shit like this. I just showed up when Coulson asked me to and now I'm shooting bombs into space and getting punched in the face by a lava man I helped create! Don't ask." Tony slumped onto the couch, dragging his hands over his face. "In the last twenty-four hours, I've been shot at, blown up, had my house fall off a cliff after being attacked by terrorists, dragged to the bottom of the ocean, crash-landed in the middle of rural-fucking-Tennessee, where I had to have a god damn _nine year old_ help me fix my suit- actually, he was a nice kid- then almost drowned again, watched as two of my best friends were almost killed in front of me, was almost responsible for the death of the president of the United States, and blew up all of my suits. So it's been a rough couple of days, _Steve._ "

"That's just my name, but the way you said it made it sound like an insult."

"It was... not."

"Sure." Steve leaned on the back of the sofa, his knuckles gently brushing Tony's shoulder. "But what I'm hearing is that you need to talk to a therapist."

"I talked to a doctor."

"Banner is not that kind of doctor-"

"He went to medical school-"

"No he didn't!" Tony grinned nonetheless. Steve straightened and circled the sofa, offering Tony a hand. "Come on. You made spaghetti, are we going to eat it or not?" And as Tony took Steve's hand, something... very odd happened. And very unexpected. He rose to his feet, but neither one made another move. In fact, Tony didn't even take his hand out of Steve's. He just kept looking up at Steve. And, instead of his mind racing at a million miles a minute like usual, there was nothing. There was peace. And then there was something.

There were Steve’s lips, and Tony’s lips, and then they were together, their hands falling to their sides, no longer necessary. Steve lifted his head, breaking the kiss, and Tony felt his forehead fall against Steve’s shoulder, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

”What- What was that?” Steve asked breathlessly.

”I... don’t know,” Tony replied, letting out a humorless chuckle. He raised his eyes to meet Steve’s. “All I know is that this is the one time in the last five years that I haven’t wanted to tear this damn thing-“ he pounded on the flowing electromagnet in his chest. “-out of myself and let that shrapnel shred my heart.” 

“Don’t do that.” Steve lifted his hand, big and rough, and placed it over Tony’s heart. Not the metal contraption protesting it, but slightly off-center, and Tony felt it pounding under Steve’s touch. Hesitantly, Tony put his own on top of Steve’s.

”I wasn’t going to. Not now, anyway.” And Steve leaned down, and Tony leaned up, and they kissed again, fitting together like two pieces of completely different puzzles that manage to fit together regardless. Steve’s hand slid out from under Tony’s, inching upwards until his thumb traced Tony’s jawline. 

Tony’s arms encircled Steve’s waist, although barely, pulling them as close together as two people could be. Unfortunately, breathing is necessary for human survival, so they broke apart, both panting heavily.

”We should get some sleep,” Steve murmured.

”Yeah.” Tony groaned. “But I don’t want to.” Steve chuckled.

”I’ll make up the sofa.” They disentangled from one another, and Steve got a pillow and blanket from the linen closet.

”Goodnight, Tony.” Steve smiled softly from the doorway to his bedroom.

”’Night, Steve.”

 

Steve woke up no more than three hours later. Not because his alarm had gone off, or because he had to pee, but because he had learned to sleep lightly in his army days, and at this moment, there was a soft whimpering noise coming from the living room. His feet hit the floor with a gentle thump, and he padded into the living room, arms raised in a defensive stance, less out of actually fear than instinct. And that was when he saw Tony.

He was tossing and turning, but not like an average person. He was still asleep, as evident by his closed eyes, but was jerking rapidly from side to side as if to avoid someone. He was muttering, softly, frantically, and as Steve knelt down next to him, he could hear what was being said.

”No...” His body shook with unconscious sobs. “Please... I don’t want to go back...”

”Tony. Tony, it’s not real.” Steve shook him gently by the shoulders. “Come on, Tony, wake up.” He didn’t. He did stop moving, though, and quieted somewhat. He went limp under Steve’s hands. Steve slipped one arm under Tony’s shoulders, and the other under his legs, and lifted him slowly, carrying him into the bedroom, laying him gently on the side of the bed that Steve didn’t usually sleep on. He pulled the quilt up, and after a brief moment, pressed a gentle kiss to Tony’s hairline. Then, he walked around the bed and crawled back in, trying his best not to shake Tony, who was once again fast asleep.

He did not remain that way, however, and Steve woke up once again to find Tony, who was moving much more violently, reaching out as if to catch something, or to find a handhold in the air. This time, he woke up when Steve grabbed him, and began to cry, rolling away from Steve and cradling his face in his hands. Steve draped a broad arm over Tony’s waist and pulled him in, holding him fast until he stopped shaking and his breathing slowed. 

That was it for Tony. He didn’t go back to Malibu. He didn’t rebuild the house. He stayed in DC, building contraptions in Steve’s kitchen, twisting screws with a butter knife. When Stark Tower was rebuilt, he returned to New York, no longer a shell of himself. He was different, for sure, but he was himself. And every day, he thought of that night, that Christmas that he hadn’t even realized was Christmas, spent in a shitty apartment in Washington, kissing a man he hadn’t even realized he had wanted to kiss until he was doing it, then falling asleep in his arms. And since then, he hadn’t had a single nightmare.

Not one.


End file.
